


Check

by MenaceAnon



Series: Malagueña [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: I promised you pole dancing didn't I?, M/M, Pre-Relationship, dance au, secretly a dancer!alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 23:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10476798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaceAnon/pseuds/MenaceAnon
Summary: Jefferson’s hands curl, and he follows the music.Or: Jefferson really needs to stop doing this. (Jefferson's not sure he ever wants to stop doing this.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on Tumblr at [MenaceAnon](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com) for [a lot more fic!](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fic)

Maybe Jefferson doesn’t have a key, but he does have Hamilton’s address, and papers to be signed – if the little prick wants to dodge him at work, Thomas will just follow him home. It’s not that complicated. 

So Jefferson rings, and miracle of miracles, Hamilton buzzes him in. 

He doesn’t greet Jefferson at the door. Instead there’s music, loud in another room, and a shout: 

“It’s in the fridge! Start the oven, I’ll be done in a few!” 

Hamilton is expecting someone. _Not me_ , Jefferson thinks with a grin.

Curious, he tugs open the refrigerator. He only has it halfway open when several puzzle pieces slot abruptly into place: the music blasts, and Jefferson remembers a hellish week at the office. A late night – nearly 2 AM. Hamilton in the gym like a force of nature, and a moment when for once in their lives neither of them had a damn thing to say. A month later and they still haven’t said a word. 

Jefferson’s hands curl, and he follows the music. 

This is not – quite – like that night. 

The music swirls and bleeds speed, lifting to something sweet and high, and Hamilton is folded up into a tiny ball at the very top of a pole, with his hair over his face. Like a grace note of tawny muscle. He’s turning slowly, an aimless orbit – and then the beat drops, and so does Alex. His body unfurls into sudden momentum, barely seeming to touch the pole with one hand and a toe, other leg bent. He uses the spin, catches the pole with a knee and suddenly he’s upside down, his body arched like a strung bow, still turning, turning. The delicate stretch of an arm and then he flips like the spokes of a wheel. Whips about. And with a final, slow loop around he doesn’t so much land as walk, light as a moat of dust, out of the air. 

Jefferson can feel his heart thudding, feels hot all over, fingers tingling with the desire to touch – and not with the usual urge for violence that Hamilton and Hamilton alone brings out in him, this is something else entirely. 

This is the forbidden, fingertip-curiosity of an art museum. 

Hamilton, however, is no apathetic sculpture. He sees Jefferson, and startles. “What the fuck are you doing in my home?” 

Jefferson reaches for a clever response, but finds a void where his wits should be. 

“You buzzed me in,” he mutters, and Hamilton is wearing gray– shorts, you could call them, but they’re more like boxer briefs, and everywhere else he’s just… golden. His hair is up, but what’s escaped the band is snaking along his neck and cheeks, and his chest heaves with exertion, taut and gleaming with sweat and oh. Oh, _shit_. 

Hamilton storms forward, bare feet landing on the hardwood with the solid, centered force of a fighter entering the ring, and it doesn’t even occur to Jefferson to move out of his way until Hamilton’s palm lands on his sternum and shoves him back. He’s _strong_. Thomas staggers hard, once and then again when Hamilton does it a second time. 

He comes unstuck. 

“Hey!” 

“Hey _nothing_! You’re in my _home_!” 

He is. Hamilton’s home, after-hours, files in hand (and now hopelessly crumpled). Because Hamilton, _Hamilton_ , is a faithless bastard who would leave Jefferson to hang and hang alone, and Jefferson needs his– needs– uh. 

They’re back in the kitchen, Hamilton corralling him toward the exit, but Thomas’s eyes find the gleaming silver pole in the other room and for an instant he can still see Hamilton twisting around it, momentum and strength and the (bruises on the insides of his legs, oh, God, that’s why–) gloss of sweat. 

On an impulse, the next time Hamilton reaches for him Thomas grabs his wrist. 

Music is still pulsing through the apartment, loud enough to buzz the photos on the walls when the bass sinks its teeth in. Under the tips of Thomas’s fingers, Hamilton’s heart hammers its own unquiet rhythm. He stares at Jefferson, suddenly very still, and his eyes are the color of scorched earth.

Jefferson lets him go, and takes a slow step back. 

He passes Peggy Schuyler on his way out, forcing a smile at her inquisitive “hello” but not stopping, not until he’s in his car, with the door closed. 

Then he clutches a hand over his mouth, infuriated with the throb of his pulse and the hot pit burning low in his belly. 

This is not – quite – like that night. 

It is significantly worse.


End file.
